The company I (just about) still work for had rather unwisely kept me on, for nearly nine years, at the same short notice period with which I started. For reasons of good will, diligence, and timing, and a desire to keep a bit of structure (and a guaranteed income) for a while longer, I agreed to a good seven weeks of part-time working.

I wouldn’t say I’m regretting it as such, but the problem is that, interspersed as that has been with taking remaining holidays, my notice is starting to feel something like an extended wake. When I was gone for four working days, I returned to a reaction that suggested people were already growing used to life without me. That might be a necessary part of grief and bereavement but I’m not sure I want to be around to see it.

I know I’ll be sad to leave: because part of me already is. My pre-mammalian brain keeps screaming: what are you doing? what is all this change for? get them to take you back! before it’s too late. Doubtless this glimpse of life without me isn’t helping matters. But I also know I’ll be glad to leave: because another part of me already is that too. I just wish the two parts hadn’t chosen November to fight it out in.